


if you're both free

by kindlyclears



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Contemplated Death Threats, Established Relationship, Multi, Polyamorous Triad, Quadrant Vacillation, Threesome - F/M/M, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 17:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11468085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindlyclears/pseuds/kindlyclears
Summary: A high priest, a lawyer, and an executioner find time in their schedules to get down and dirty.





	if you're both free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valiantblueknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantblueknight/gifts).



They didn’t share a hive.

No, that would be inconvenient. That would be obscene. That would be silly - the three of them hardly spent any time in their own hives to begin with. Shacking up with one’s coworkers (and especially in a semi-illegal vacillating three-way) was just begging for a cull, and two-thirds of them would be exceptionally fucking lucky to duck the executioner’s bladed weapon of choice. And that was enough to stay the Highblood’s hand, to keep him from forcing the two of them to stay put in one place, so he could keep a watchful GODDAMN eye, keep the two of them under the merciful canopy of the Messiah’s blessings, keep them far and apart from the roiling ungrateful **BLASPHEMOUS MASSES**.

Not that either of them would stand for it, even if he did put his big ruthless paws to the task.

His fiery little icepop momma would rather choke on her own bulge than accept any of his charity, a fact which makes him all sorts of dizzy in the pan with pity and what fans the flames of her hatred higher, that her gutwrench void-dark pitch in all its expressions falls flat, fuels his flush better than any pump-biscuit-sourced red expressions ever could (and maybe that calls into question just which two-thirds of them would be the fuckers to lay their necks on the chopping block, but since when did he have a fear of death?). 

And their morose neurotic indigo tinkerer, set to killing when he was happiest fucking around with metal and ochre and rigging up dreams? He somehow found pity for the both of them, fucking oceans' upon oceans’ worth, reverent and chastising and flip-floppity as any banned quadrant-ripper’s scandalous triad (or quad, or fuck, the Highblood himself had confiscated one detailing an eightsome, however the fuck that worked and he’d tried to work it out in his boredom more than motherfucking once) - the nerve of him, the unmitigated, **AUDACIOUS** motherfucking **_GALL_** \- he was handsbound to his duty and hot all the fuck over for the Empire and would probably swoon himself into some waste-away death without the structure to guide him and the Empress’s pats to reward him. 

But then - and here was the big goddamn sticking point - he couldn’t bear his weight without them. Ancient and experienced and _DAMN_ CLOSE TO **MOTHERFUCKING ROYAL** as he was, and flawed and low and asynchronous as they were, they were indispensable as his own two aerating sacs, and parting from them was going to be at least half as painful as getting those tore out from his trunk, and he was pretty motherfucking sure he'd rather snap off his own two horns and impale himself with them than face that inevitable night. 

Fuck, but he got maudlin waiting around with his **MOTHERFUCKING** fronds jammed up his waste chute. Maybe it was the locale; the shitty unused storage room tucked away in the bowels of the Court, stocked with what furniture they could cobble together from neglected meeting rooms and culled officials’ quarters and smuggle from their own hives on occasion, wasn’t precisely what a body could call home, at least not without some particular other bodies cozied up to make it feel correct. 

Which, upon second inspection, was probably the truth to what had his dander all up and upped. They were late, and he’d been on time for MOTHERFUCKING _ONCE_ , and he didn’t even get to see his fast-talking sharp-edged lovely go all soft-faced with surprise, didn’t get to see that slack mouth go all scrunchy with irritation how he knew it would’ve, how he’d been fucking **LOOKING _FORWARD_ TO** on the long-as-fuck trudge down to their hideaway. 

Which, upon third inspection, was probably why he was idly and rhythmically tearing holes in the reclining plane and picking out the stuffing, his icing-thick greasepaint curling and cracking with the tension of his deep frown. It was a blessing, then, straight from the Messiahs to his own motherfucking hivestep, that it was his blustery blue blushing bulwark that came stumbling through the door first, swiping soot from his goggles and glancing anxiously around in anticipation of a flash of red-and-white and a swift firm rap against the backs of his knees ‘for your t4rd1n3ss, you of 4ll p3opl3 should know w3’r3 4ll on r1g1d sch3dul3s!’ - but no such blow came, and the flinch had a stubborn fleck of diamond burying itself sharp and insistent in his pump biscuit, trilling out low and conciliatory to let the jumpy little fuck know he was around.

And jump he did, predictable as the sunrise and inevitable as the moonset, a fresh bout of shameless effervescence sheeting down his face like the most piteous fucking come-on that it was. And there, there the pale started to go pink at the edges, and it was a lucky thing that their razor-tipped arbiter of justice rounded the corner just then and barged in as bold and unflinching as you could ever motherfucking please. Her level gaze dragged slow from the lazy pleasure of his widening grin to the caught-out tension of their E%ecutor’s… well, his everything. She approached them as measured and composed as if she was treading the boards in front of a screaming horde of witnesses, her stride hardly breaking even as she stripped away her gloves, her boots, her jacket, each left haphazardly behind her as a physical record of her slow slip into beautiful, rare, exquisite motherfucking repose. Even stripped down to her underclothes, even with her cheeks and the tips of her ears tinged teal with exertion and maybe exhaustion and probably irritation, she was still a breathing tableau of restrained violence, elegant and infernal and self-assured and composed as any tyrian upstart and maybe half as reckless.

The Highblood opened his maw and her tiny clever hand was shoved up under his heavy jaw to force it shut before he could utter a word, his easy smirk conveying as much of his smugness as she was willing to shoulder. “I have had,” she said carefully, each word clipped as cutting and keen as a newforged stiletto, “a very, very, very long night.” She intercepted the E%ecutor’s intervention before it could begin, her free hand snapping out to meet his chest, to feel the tiniest rumble of a placating purr just as it cut out.

The vexations of his wait forgotten, the Highblood slung a great heavy arm around the Neophyte’s shoulders, hauling her close, making her stumble and swear, sickeningly crimson pity swelling syrup-thick in his chest, dripping down to lay searing and insistent against his groin. “Hey, hey, wasn’t gonna say a goddamn thing,” he crooned, tugging her close to lay his wet grin against the curve of her skull, feeling her stiffen and curl like a trapped mewbeast just waiting for the opportune moment to let the violence out. "Was just gonna say that it's damn motherfucking GOOD to see you, momma."

And because his generosity and graciousness truly knew no motherfucking bounds, he swung out with his free hand and caught their blackberry beauty by the middle and tugged him close, too, worked his claws into the waistband of those regulation-tight trousers and tugged down, hard, impatient. “Good - I mean, gracious - gnh, f-fiddlesticks-” 

“The Mirthful Messiahs as my solemn GOD. **DAMN. _WITNESSES_** , Rus, I am gonna get a true blue motherfucking cuss outta that pretty little squawkblister of yours one of these sweeps,” the Highblood growled, turning away from mouthing slow and lazy over Redglare’s neck to nuzzle hard into Horuss’s face, catching his lips in an insistent kiss as he dragged his pants down and palmed that ridiculously thick bulge, squeezing hard and rhythmic and drinking down his moans. 

And the patient mewbeast metaphor held true, because the second his attention was stolen away she writhed hard out of his grip and straight up tore his pants off, away, motherfucking gone, and it was a wonder he didn’t soak the floor then and there. As it was his nook was a bruising aching clench of want, and he breathed ragged and hard into the E%ecutor’s mouth as she palmed his ass and leveraged her strength and laid him wide and open and finally, finally fucking filled him, her long nimble bulge none too thick but exactly dexterous enough to whip hard at his seedflap, merciless and hateful and _perfect_ , and if his flushed chirping only made her growl and fuck him harder, then well that was a **_BONUS_. **

****

****

If he had half a mind, he’d beg the both of them to fuck him, to feel their bulges twine and arch and double-team his needy nook and spill inside him like the sweetest blasphemous supplication - but it had been long, too long, since they’d done this, and all he could manage was a wanton groan and some solicitous chirps, buzzing all over with hot pleasure and sweet pity.

His mouth had long since fallen away from Horuss’s, and with Latula’s bulge winding and lashing hard inside him he was too far gone to pick that shit up again. 

“Kurloz.”

He just barely managed to crack his eyes open, to catch a glimpse of those big fucking indigo eyes blinking up at him like some top-shelf red(pale?)stud calendar boy, fuck, fuck, to see them go even softer as he slid down past his chest and spread his legs and grabbed his hips to drag them down, to bring his seeking bulge to the cool sweetness of his nook. It took every ounce of what little self-control he possessed not to slap his hips down and force every inch of himself inside, stuff him fuller with bulge than motherfucking organs, hear him scream and feel him writhe - but he managed, curled his body steady and careful above him, planked his arms against the tiles and hung his great head down to feel his horns hit the floor.

It would be so easy to kill them. Accidentally, intentionally, both or either of them - too hard a smack here, too deep a slash there, too deep a day spent in the boiling veil of the chucklevoodoos... The act of preserving them was as deliberate and mindful as any prayer, reverence written in the gentle roll of his hips, the tense restraint drawing his body tight. 

There were a few blissful minutes, of filling and being filled, of claws dragging electric down his back and clutched gently around his waist, of filthy words whispered at his neck and desperate pleas moaned below his belly. But all of their tensions had drawn them too tight, too urgent, and it wasn’t long before material gushed hard into his nook and had his own bulge jumping and curling and filling Horuss nearly to bursting.

Much as they would try to prolong it, the tryst wouldn’t last. Not that it didn't end _well_ \- by the time they were all well and truly emptied, clothes and skin would be splattered indigo and purple and teal, bruises would be blooming under cheekbones and over spines and through throats - but it was never, never long enough. Horuss would fret about the stink of it, of the mess dripping from his nook that he'd only just begged them both for, nervous and eager to steer things conciliatory like the desperate papslut he is - Latula would recline on the lounge, grooming herself absently, satisfied and once more distant, calculating, locked away and only glancingly amenable to Horuss’s fussing. Sometimes he got the privilege of watching them go all pale on each other - combing hair and rubbing horns and tangled up all content and loose and purring. Most of the time they all cleaned up as best they could in the washbasin and went on back to their duties, each taking a separate route to avoid the gossip.

But tonight, for once, in the face of the breaking dawn, there’s time. Time enough to unwind a little further, time enough for him to tug the both of his squalling squirming flawless fucking treasures onto his chest and fall backwards onto the concupiscent platform, time to curl them up close and feel their breath on his cheeks, time enough to feel them _live_.


End file.
